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Authors: Ben Mezrich
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tighter against his throat as he reached the entrance to his apartment building. A man like Berezovsky might never be able to understand, but Vladâs plan to chase the corruption out of television by imposing a moratorium on ads wasnât a business strategy. He didnât want to clean up ORT to make Berezovsky richer. He saw television as something much, much bigger than a corporation. Just as the cameras captured his reflection, spinning it a hundred million times across the country, those samecameras reflected something backâa picture of what his nation had become. So much promise, so much possibility, but tethered to a corrupt time.
Almost out of instinct, Vlad glanced behind himself at the empty sidewalk, taking note of the few cars on the street beside him. He knew that it was a risky game he was playing. The corrupt forces aligned against him were not going to look kindly on his moratorium or the tens of millions of dollars they would lose because of it. But Vlad was optimistic. He believed that eventually, they would find other businesses to conquerâor they would simply accept what he was trying to do. The idea that he might come to physical harm over television ads seemed incredibly unlikely.
Even so, he wasnât a fool. In fact, just a day ago, he had been visited by a pair of government agents who had told him that although there werenât any specific threats against him, he needed to be careful. But, despite his wifeâs insistence, he wasnât going to lock himself up like an Oligarch, with bodyguards and armored cars. Despite the corruption of the moment, despite what he read in the newspapers every day and reported on his television shows, he believed in his people.
Perhaps that was part of the Russian condition, to love something so broken and bruised. Perhaps it was the same reason his people had embraced himâa man who at times had been so broken and bruised. Hell, if he couldnât take a stand, then who could?
He took the steps up to the doorway to his apartment building, undid the dead bolt, and stepped inside.
To his surprise, the foyer was darker than usual; he noticed that one of the bulbs in the stairwell leading up into the interior of the building had blown outâbut there was still just enough light to make out the steps.
He was halfway to the first landing when he realized that he hadnât heard the front door shut behind him. He was about to turn to see whyâwhen he noticed movement a few feet above him.
He squinted through his glassesâand made out a man, dressed entirely in black, his face covered by what appeared to be a ski mask.
Vlad froze midstep. His mind started to try to make sense of what he was seeing, and he reached down toward his coat. He had a fair amount of cash on him, and the rational portion of his brain thought maybe this was a robbery.
And then he heard the two sudden pops. Something bit at his arm, right above the elbow, and then something else touched the back of his head. Suddenly he was falling, the muscles in his legs giving out. A warm river was running down the back of his neckâbut his mind was already beginning to disconnect as he toppled down the stairs.
Before his eyes stopped working, he caught a glimpse of one of the men standing in the open doorway behind him, also dressed in black. In the manâs hand was a 9mm handgun, attached to a cruel-looking silencer.
Perhaps Vladâs final sense, his final emotion, was pure disbelief; that even in this new and brutal Russia, a man could be murdered over television commercials.
And then his body hit the ground.
CHAPTER NINE
----
March 2, 1995, 3:00 p.m.,
Logovaz Club
I N MOMENTS LIKE THESEâJUST the two of them, alone in Berezovskyâs private office on the top floor of the club, the slight businessman hunched over his desk, Litvinenko standing a few feet away, his hip against an ornate window sill as he watched the Oligarch
Almost out of instinct, Vlad glanced behind himself at the empty sidewalk, taking note of the few cars on the street beside him. He knew that it was a risky game he was playing. The corrupt forces aligned against him were not going to look kindly on his moratorium or the tens of millions of dollars they would lose because of it. But Vlad was optimistic. He believed that eventually, they would find other businesses to conquerâor they would simply accept what he was trying to do. The idea that he might come to physical harm over television ads seemed incredibly unlikely.
Even so, he wasnât a fool. In fact, just a day ago, he had been visited by a pair of government agents who had told him that although there werenât any specific threats against him, he needed to be careful. But, despite his wifeâs insistence, he wasnât going to lock himself up like an Oligarch, with bodyguards and armored cars. Despite the corruption of the moment, despite what he read in the newspapers every day and reported on his television shows, he believed in his people.
Perhaps that was part of the Russian condition, to love something so broken and bruised. Perhaps it was the same reason his people had embraced himâa man who at times had been so broken and bruised. Hell, if he couldnât take a stand, then who could?
He took the steps up to the doorway to his apartment building, undid the dead bolt, and stepped inside.
To his surprise, the foyer was darker than usual; he noticed that one of the bulbs in the stairwell leading up into the interior of the building had blown outâbut there was still just enough light to make out the steps.
He was halfway to the first landing when he realized that he hadnât heard the front door shut behind him. He was about to turn to see whyâwhen he noticed movement a few feet above him.
He squinted through his glassesâand made out a man, dressed entirely in black, his face covered by what appeared to be a ski mask.
Vlad froze midstep. His mind started to try to make sense of what he was seeing, and he reached down toward his coat. He had a fair amount of cash on him, and the rational portion of his brain thought maybe this was a robbery.
And then he heard the two sudden pops. Something bit at his arm, right above the elbow, and then something else touched the back of his head. Suddenly he was falling, the muscles in his legs giving out. A warm river was running down the back of his neckâbut his mind was already beginning to disconnect as he toppled down the stairs.
Before his eyes stopped working, he caught a glimpse of one of the men standing in the open doorway behind him, also dressed in black. In the manâs hand was a 9mm handgun, attached to a cruel-looking silencer.
Perhaps Vladâs final sense, his final emotion, was pure disbelief; that even in this new and brutal Russia, a man could be murdered over television commercials.
And then his body hit the ground.
CHAPTER NINE
----
March 2, 1995, 3:00 p.m.,
Logovaz Club
I N MOMENTS LIKE THESEâJUST the two of them, alone in Berezovskyâs private office on the top floor of the club, the slight businessman hunched over his desk, Litvinenko standing a few feet away, his hip against an ornate window sill as he watched the Oligarch
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